


Visitation

by cosmogyrals



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:38:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmogyrals/pseuds/cosmogyrals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-S2 AU ficlet (originally written between S2 and S3). Alex pays a visit to Manchester after she returns home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visitation

The graveyard was small, a series of gravestones huddled together behind a church, with a small hill that was topped by a tree. It'd been tricky to find, mainly because she hadn't expected there to be a church. But it was just one of those things you did because of tradition, Alex gathered, and not due to any particular religious obligation - there had certainly been none of that, not even in a quietly vague CoE way. (Alex had been raised Catholic, but was most definitely lapsed in her religious duties. She wondered from time to time if she ought to do something about it, for Molly, if for no other reason - but she wasn't quite sure what she believed in anymore.)

Luckily, she'd managed to avoid the aged vicar after being let in through the wrought iron gate, and now she was examining the headstones as a light rain fell around her. It was, she thought, just her luck; she'd come all the way up north for this, leaving Molly with Evan for the day, and now it was raining. But no rain was going to deter her; the headscarf she'd taken to wearing over the cropped stubble on her skull would keep her from catching cold, at least.

And there it was, finally, tucked away in a corner, confronting her with the stark granite reality. The grass around it was a little overgrown, and the grave itself was bare - nobody left offerings here. There was nobody to leave them. She'd brought flowers, of course - a habit long-ingrained in her from visiting her parents' grave, first with Evan, then on her own, and, from time to time, with Molly. She'd agonised over the selection at the florist's, knowing that he'd laugh at her for bringing any at all. But it wasn't proper to come empty-handed. Not roses; she couldn't stand the sight of them anymore. There was one long-stemmed white lily - and then she'd brought a letter, sealed in an envelope, and a bottle of single malt Scotch.

Alex laid the lily at the foot of the stone, tucking the letter behind it carefully. She poured herself a measure of the Scotch, then tipped the rest of it into the dust. ("A waste o' Scotch," he'd've scoffed at her foolish sentimentality, but Alex felt it was appropriate.) And then, finally, she allowed herself to sit down - her legs wouldn't hold her any longer. She clung to the granite like a life preserver, pressing her cheek against the cool stone, and cried.

She'd wondered why nobody had bothered to do the research earlier - why she hadn't bothered when she'd received Sam's notes. It was simple enough, the paper trail laid out in front of her like she was meant to follow it. And it had ended here, in an overgrown near-pauper's grave in a poor neighbourhood of Manchester. She didn't know what she'd expected, but it hadn't been this.

Alex drew her fingers across the engraved letters, wondering what it had been like for him. A courageous act of self-sacrifice, the official commendation had called it. She knew that he'd wanted to redeem his honour, that being disgraced and demoted had broken him, and that this was the only way out. Not suicide, no, but making his death mean something. In the end, it hadn't been the fags or the booze, but a spotty teenager hopped up on acid.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should've - " Should've what? Should've gone back, like Sam? Alex knew that had never been an option for her. Molly needed her; she couldn't lose herself in the past. (Was there a grave somewhere for her past self? Two graves for Sam Tyler? How did these things work, anyway?) No matter how she'd felt about him - about all of them - her life was more important than that.

But she'd ruined him, too. She was responsible for this, and it was a heavy weight to bear. "I'm sorry," she repeated, wanting to apologise, her throat closing on the words.

Alex drew a roll of butcher paper and a piece of charcoal out of her bag. She'd done this first in primary school, when her class had taken a trip to a cemetery and made rubbings of the decorated gravestones there; she remembered choosing one with an intricate pattern of ivy and birds. This one was stark and undecorated, not even an epitaph to the beloved deceased. (But he hadn't left anybody behind to love him. His mum had died before he came to London, his wife had left him. She wasn't even sure who had arranged the burial. Other coppers, perhaps; they would take care of their own.) She smoothed the paper over the stone with trembling hands, rubbing the charcoal over it to make a duplicate of the inscription. She had to have this, had to prove to herself that he was real, that he'd lived and breathed just as she did. She had a small collection of newspaper clippings, but this was more concrete somehow. It was proof.

An elastic secured the paper once she was done, and she rested her forehead against the cool stone for a long moment, tears trickling down her cheeks again. Maybe she could have saved him if she'd gone back. But she'd thought he was only a construct - that he'd cease to exist once she returned to her real life. Somewhere, deep inside her, she'd known the truth - been reminded of it every time she'd felt his heart beat against her fingers - but she'd denied it. And now there was nothing that she could do for him except remember him. He would, somewhat ironically, only exist in her mind.

Before Alex left, she pulled a lighter from her coat pocket and set fire to the letter, still sealed in its envelope. It wasn't the letter she'd written him back then - she wondered if he'd been the one to go through her desk later, if he'd read it then - but the words were close enough to the original. As the last of the paper curled into ash, she stood, taking one last look at the grave, and left.

He would have had a happier ending if he had been a construct, she thought to herself. She would have seen to that, at least. He deserved some sort of proper ending. But Alex had learnt at a young age that nobody ever got the ending they deserved - not even her.


End file.
